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 “And now, my child,” continued Mr. Robinson, “let us turn our
inquiries upon our own hearts.
‘Does no dark sign, no ground of fear,
In practice or in thought appear?’
“How strange it is that we, who have such high notions of integrity
in our intercourse with our fellow-creatures, should so often fail in our
transactions with Him before whom all things are naked and open,
and who will accept only the worship of the heart. O, my child, when
our prayers, our praises, our duties, are laid in the balance, what
must be said of them all?”
“They are found wanting,” replied Emma, with deep and solemn
feeling.
“Most wanting,” said her father emphatically; “corrupt fruits from a
wild and poisonous tree. Let us then take those hearts which God’s
word and our own experience declare to be deceitful above all
things, and desperately wicked—let us take them to the fountain
opened for sin and uncleanness, even the blood of Christ, which
cleanseth from all sin. Without his precious atonement and perfect
obedience to the divine law, how ruinous must have been our guilt;
how utterly naked and destitute our souls! But can we hope that they
are pardoned and accepted? Let us seek, also, their daily renewal;
continuing instant in prayer, and watching thereunto with all
perseverance, let us unsparingly detect all their crooked ways, and
pray that the spirit of holiness and truth would work in us to will and
to do of his good pleasure. O, how can we sufficiently magnify that
complete and great salvation, which redeeming mercy offers to our
fallen race? Blessed be the Lord God of Israel, for He hath visited
and redeemed his people! And blessed be his glorious majesty
forever; let the earth be filled with his glory, and let the whole world
say, Amen!”
“I do say Amen, papa,” rejoined Emma, fervently; “and I do hope I
am truly thankful for those instructions which have shown me the
value of spiritual blessings, and taught me also that in simplicity and
godly sincerity I ought to have my conversation in the world.”
 S. S. S.

“That’s a very bad cough you’ve got, friend Smith.”

“Yes, neighbor Jones, but it’s the best I’ve got!”

The man who is guilty of the theft is frequently the first to cry,
“Stop thief!”
 The Hyena.

I am a very good-natured person; apt to see things in a favorable

light; fond of picking out pleasant objects to contemplate, and am
usually able to find agreeable qualities in every body and every
thing. But I must confess, that, with all my disposition to be pleased, I
can see very little that is pleasant in the countenance of the hyena.
What a horrid fierce look he has! His countenance seems to bespeak
perpetual hunger and thirst for blood; he looks as if his supper would
taste all the better if it were attended by the agonized struggles and
cries of the victim upon which he feasts! He really looks as if pain
and distress would be but as pepper and spice to his meal.
But the fact is, no animals are cruel; that is, fond of inflicting pain
from mere malice. Even the tiger slays but to eat, and the hyena, ill-
favored as he is, has his part assigned to him by nature, and this is a
useful one to man and beast. He is a native of the warm parts of
Africa, and the southern part of Asia. He seldom kills an animal
except when pressed by want, preferring to feed upon the carcasses
of those he may find slain. It is a horrid part of the story of this
creature, that he will sometimes go into a grave-yard and dig up the
remains of people buried there; and he will, also, follow the march of
an army to feast upon the slain after a battle.
Living in hot countries, and feeding upon the decayed flesh of
animals, the hyena is useful by removing putrid masses of flesh that
would otherwise infect the air with pestilence. He is thus a
scavenger, and shares with the vulture the task of delivering the
countries they inhabit from fruitful causes of fatal disease. Though
we may not admire the face of the hyena, still we perceive that the
world could not well do without him.
There is a common notion that the hyena is so wild in his nature
as to be untamable; but this is a mistake. The creature is frequently
tamed in India, and then lives quietly about the house like a dog. He
is attached to those who are kind, but is spiteful and revengeful to
those who abuse him.
 This change in the character made by training, is a strong proof of
the force of education; for not only is the tamed hyena made gentle
in reality, but his countenance is actually rendered mild and
inoffensive. This shows that the character is written in the face, and
bids young people beware how they let their passions mark
themselves upon their countenances.
 Jewish Women.

We do not read that a Jewess was to be seen among the crowds

of priests and the rabble who insulted the Son of man, scourged him,
crowned him with thorns, and subjected him to ignominy and the
agony of the cross. The women of Judea believed in the Savior; they
loved, they followed him; they assisted him with their substance, and
soothed him under afflictions. A woman of Bethany poured on his
head the precious ointment which she kept in a vase of alabaster;
the sinner anointed his feet with a perfumed oil, and wiped them with
her hair. Christ, on his part, extended his grace and mercy to the
Jewesses; he raised from the dead the son of the widow of Nain,
and Martha’s brother Lazarus; he cured Simon’s mother-in-law, and
the woman who touched the hem of his garment. To the Samaritan
woman he was a spring of living water. The daughters of Jerusalem
wept over him; the holy women accompanied him to Calvary—
brought balm and spices, and, weeping,
sought him at the sepulchre. His first appearance, after his
resurrection, was to Mary. He said unto her, “Mary!” At the sound of
that voice, Mary Magdalene’s eyes were opened, and she answered,
“Master!” The reflection of some very beautiful ray must have rested
on the brow of the Jewesses.
 Story of Philip Brusque.

CHAPTER VI.
Serious Adventures.

It might seem that, under the circumstances described, Emilie

would have been surprised and alarmed as the dark figure emerged
from the shadow of the rock, and stood forth in the full light of the
moon; but she betrayed no such emotion. On the contrary, she
proceeded directly towards the person, and was soon clasped in his
arms. The meeting was evidently one of affection; yet apparently
there was more of grief than joy—for sobs and sighs seemed to
choke the utterance of both. When at last they spoke, it was in
broken sentences, yet in a low and subdued voice, as if they were
apprehensive of discovery.
After remaining here for nearly half an hour, Emilie bade her
companion a hasty farewell, and climbing up the rock, with a light
and hurried step proceeded toward the tent which had now become
her home. She was still at some distance, however, and as she was
passing through a thicket of orange trees, she was abruptly accosted
by a man, who placed himself in her path, and calling her by name,
took hold of her arm, as if to arrest her progress. Emilie saw at a
glance that it was Rogere, and her eye did not fail to remark, at a
little distance, a dark group of men, whom she readily conjectured to
be his companions.
Emilie felt that she was in danger, but she lost not her self-
possession. Shaking off the grasp of Rogere, and standing aloof,
she said—“Is it possible that this rudeness is offered by M. Rogere?
It is a poor occupation for a gentleman to insult a woman, because
she is alone and unprotected!”
“A gentleman!” said Rogere, sneeringly. “I am no gentleman,
thanks to the gods—no, no, fair Emilie—I am something better—I am
a freeman and a lover!”
“Indeed!” said Emilie. “Is he a freeman who takes advantage of
the strength that nature has given him, to injure and distress one
who is weaker than himself? Is he a lover, who wounds and insults
the pretended object of his regard?”
“Nay, fair lady,” said Rogere; “this sounds mighty pretty, and in
France would be heroic; but remember that we are not now under
the tyranny of artificial laws and despotic fashion. We are now
restored to the rights and privileges of nature. There is no
government here, save that which is established by the God of
nature.”
“I will not stay to hear you,” said the young lady, indignantly.
“Every word you utter is an insult, every moment you detain me you
are guilty of insolence and wrong. Shame, shame upon a
Frenchman who can forget to be woman’s protector, and become
woman’s tyrant!”
“Mighty fine all this, certainly; but remember that I repudiate
France and the name of Frenchman: I am a man, that is enough,
and I shall assert man’s privileges. You must listen; you shall hear
me. Look around, and everywhere you see that in the dynasty of
nature all is regulated by force. There is a power of gravitation, which
controls matter, and bids the earth roll round in its orbit. Even matter,
then, the very soil, the inanimate clod, the senseless stones, obey
the law of force. And it is so with the animal tribes: among birds, the
eagle is master of the raven; with quadrupeds, the lion is lord of the
forest; with fishes, the whale is monarch of the deep.
“Then, in communities of animals, we see that everything is
regulated by power; even among a band of wolves, the strongest
has the first choice: privileges are exactly proportioned to power. It is
so throughout nature—might is right. It is on this universal principle
that I claim you as my own. I am the strongest man on the island; I
have therefore a right to whatever I desire. Nay, lady, start not! you
must, you shall listen! I have those near at hand who can and will aid
me, if I do but utter the word. You shall listen—you shall obey! Why
is woman made weaker than man, but that she is to be the servant
of man?”
“M. Rogere,” said Emilie, sternly, “it is humiliation for me to be
obliged to remain for one moment in your presence; it is degradation
to be obliged to speak with you. For all this you will be made to
answer.”
“By whom, pray? Who is there that can call me to account? There
is no law here, remember, that can restrain or punish me. Nature has
given me power, and I shall use it for my own pleasure.”
“I fear not that power; I fear neither you nor your menaces; and if I
remain a moment here, it is not from respect to your strength. You
dare not lay your hand upon me, for there is another power than that
of limbs and muscles. If you are a man, you have a soul, and that
soul has power over the body. Before you can, like the wolf, become
a mere creature of selfishness, before you can act upon the principle
that might is right, you must rid yourself of that soul, that thing within
called conscience. Even now it is at work; it is this which makes you
resort to false philosophy and shallow argument to justify an act that
your humor dictates, but which your soul and conscience condemn.
The wolf stops not to reason, but M. Rogere, who pleads the
example of the wolf, cannot wholly shake off reason. He cannot
imitate the brute, without offering an apology. The wolf is no coward,
but M. Rogere is a coward; there is something within that tells him
that he must not, shall not, dare not exert his strength against a
woman!”
As Emilie uttered these words, she rose to her full height, her eye
flashing with indignation. Rogere looked upon her with astonishment.
As she moved to depart, his feet seemed riveted to the ground, and
it was not till she had already proceeded a considerable distance
towards her home, that he recovered his self-possession. He then
set out in pursuit, and had no difficulty in soon overtaking the
fugitive; but at the moment he was about to lay his hand upon her
shoulder, his arm was arrested, and the well-known form of Brusque
stood before him. “Hold!” said the latter, fiercely; “touch not that
gentle being, or, by heaven, your audacity shall be punished. I have
been near, watching over the safety of this lady, and I have heard
your unmanly words to her. I now know your designs. Beware, or
even your boasted strength shall be insufficient to protect you from
the chastisement which an insolent coward deserves!”
Brusque waited not for reply. Leaving Rogere fixed to the spot and
overwhelmed with confusion, he hastened forward, drew Emilie’s
arm within his own, and proceeded with her to her house. The poor
girl was almost fainting with agitation, and Brusque could do no less
than enter the tent. After leaving her in her mother’s charge, and
giving a few words of explanation, he departed. On the morrow he
called to see her, but he found her feverish, and unable to leave her
bed.
The next day, Emilie sent for Brusque, and the two friends had a
long interview. She thanked him tenderly for his protection from the
rudeness of Rogere; and although something seemed to weigh
heavily upon his mind, he still seemed cheered and softened by her
tenderness. “It is indeed most welcome to me, Emilie,” said he, “to
hear you say these things—would that I were more worthy of your
esteem.”
“Nay, dear Philip,” said Emilie, “do not be forever indulging such a
feeling of humility—I might almost say of self-abasement. What is it
that oppresses you? Why are you always speaking in such terms? It
was not so once, my dear friend.”
“It was not indeed,” said Brusque. “Let me speak out, Emilie, and
unburthen my bosom. I was at St. Adresse your happy lover. I then
dared not only to love you, but to speak of my affection, and seek its
return and reward. But I am changed.”
“Changed! how? when? what is it? changed? Yes, you are
changed; for you are distant and reserved, and once you were all
confidence and truth.”
 “Listen, Emilie, for I will make you my confessor. I left our village
home and went to Paris, and engaged with the ardor of youth in the
Revolution; so much you know. But you do not know that I shared in
the blood and violence of that fearful frenzy, and which I now look
back upon as a horrid dream. You do not know that I was familiar
with the deeds of Robespierre, and Danton, and Marat. Yet so I was.
These hands have not indeed been dyed in the blood of my fellow-
men, but yet I assisted in many of those executions, which now
seem to me little better than murders. It is in your presence, Emilie,
that I most deeply realize my delusion. There is something in your
innocence and purity, which rebukes and reproaches my folly, and
makes it appear as unpardonable wickedness. I once loved—nay, I
love you still, Heaven only knows how truly; but I should ill act the
part of a friend by allying your innocence to my degradation.”
Emilie was now in tears, and Brusque became much agitated.
“Speak to me, my friend,” said he; “dry up those tears, and let your
sense and reason come to our aid. I will be guided in all things by
you; if you banish me, I will depart forever.”
“No, no indeed,” said the weeping girl. “You must stay—you must
stay and protect my poor parents; you must stay and be my protector
also, for Heaven only can tell how soon I shall stand in need of
protection from violence and wrong.”
Brusque was evidently touched by this appeal, but the gleam that
seemed to light up his face for a moment was instantly followed by a
cloud upon his brow. Emilie saw it, and said, “Why this doubt? Why
this concealment? What is it, Philip, that disturbs you?”
“I will be frank,” said he. “Since we have been upon this island, I
may have seemed distant and indifferent towards you; but my heart
has ever been with you, and indeed often, when you knew it not, I
have been near you;—this night, I was on the rocks by the sea-
shore, and witnessed your meeting with some one there. Tell me,
Emilie, who was that person?”
Emilie was evidently disconcerted, but still she replied, firmly,
“That is a secret, and must remain so for the present. It shall be
explained in due time; but I pray you, do not seek to penetrate the
mystery now.”
“Well, Emilie, it is not for one like me to dictate terms. My
confidence in you is so complete, that I believe you are right,
however strange it may seem, that, on this lone island, you are in the
habit of meeting a man, and a stranger, upon the solitary sea-shore,
and with marks of affection that seem only due to a brother!” Emilie
started at these words, but she made no reply. Brusque went on. “I
submit to your law of silence; but, my dear Emilie, as you have
appointed me your protector, and given me a right to consider myself
as such, let me tell you that events are approaching which will
demand all our courage, as well as our wisdom; and I cannot but feel
the most anxious fears as to the result.”
“You allude to the state of the island.”
“I do. The anarchy is now at its height. Rogere has rallied round
him the rough and the ignorant, and taught them that license is
liberty. While he cajoles them with dreams of freedom, he is seeking
his own object, which is to become sole master and despot of this
island; and I fear these deluded men will be his dupes and
instruments. It is always the case that the ignorant and degraded
portion of the community are disposed to run after those who flatter,
only to cheat them.
“The condition of the island is in every respect becoming
alarming. The fruits, that were lately so abundant, are fast
diminishing, because they belong to no one in particular; and no one
has any power or interest to preserve them. We have no fields tilled,
for the lands are common to all. If a man were to cultivate a field, he
has no right to it, and if he had, there is no government which can
secure to him the product of his toil. Everything is therefore going to
waste and ruin. We shall soon be in danger of starving if this state of
things continues. Nor is this the worst. Rogere will soon bring
matters to a crisis, and try the law of force.”
“And what is your plan?”
 “I intend to procure, if possible, a meeting of all the men of the
island to-morrow, and after showing them the actual state of things,
and the absolute necessity of established laws to save us from
famine and from cutting each other’s throats, I shall appeal to them
once more in behalf of settled government. I have hopes as to the
result—but still, my fears outweigh them. It is impossible to yield to
the demands of Rogere. Nothing but giving up all to him and his
brutal followers, will satisfy him. If we cannot obtain the consent of a
majority to the formation of some settled laws, we must come to the
question of necessity and determine it by blows. If it comes, it will be
a struggle of life and death.”
“I know it, dear Philip; I have long foreseen it.”
“I am glad that you take it so calmly. I should be flattered if your
quiet were the result of confidence in me.”
“Well, well, but you are fishing for a compliment, and I will not tell
you that I depend on you alone! I may have hopes from another
source.”
“Will you tell me from whom?”
“Nay—I shall keep my secret; but be assured that in the hour of
danger, should it come, Heaven will send us succor. Good night.”
“Good night, dear Emilie—good night.” And so the lovers parted.
Brusque sought his home, but with mingled feelings of pleasure
and pain. The restoration of former relations between him and
Emilie, was a source of the deepest satisfaction; but many
circumstances combined to cloud his brow, and agitate his heart with
anxiety.
 An Incident from Ancient History.

About 470 years before Christ, Xerxes, king of Persia, was

leading an immense army against the Greeks. It is said that it
consisted of a million of men. When they were all gathered in a vast
plain, the king mounted a throne on the brow of a hill to review them.
It was a splendid spectacle! There were the young, and the strong,
and the ambitious, and the enterprising; and some were richly
attired, and gallantly mounted on fine horses, and armed with shields
and swords of glittering steel. It was, indeed, a proud army. But
suddenly the thought came across the mind of the king—“In the
space of one hundred years; all these living and breathing men will
be in their graves!” It was a solemn thought; and it is said that even
Xerxes shed tears.

Effects of Prohibition.

Mankind have seldom a strong desire for any thing lawful, that is
easily obtained. We are not driven to our duty by laws so much as by
ambition. If it were enacted that persons of high rank only should
dine upon three dishes, the lower grade would desire to have three;
but if commoners were permitted to have as many dishes as they
pleased, whilst the rich were limited to two, the inferior class would
not exceed that number. If gaming were reckoned ungenteel, cards
and dice would lose half their attraction. In the history of the Duke of
D’Ossuna, there is a remarkable instance given of this perverse
nature in man.
A rich Neapolitan merchant prided himself upon not having once
set his foot out of the city during the space of forty-eight years. This
coming to the ears of the duke, the merchant had notice sent him
that he was to take no journey out of the kingdom, under the penalty
of 10,000 crowns. The merchant smiled at receiving the order; but,
afterwards, not being able to fathom the reason of the prohibition, he
grew so uneasy that he paid the fine, and actually took a short trip
out of the kingdom.—English paper.
 Saturday Night.

“Oh! it is Saturday night!” exclaimed Ellen; “I had forgotten that. A

Bible story, then. I am sure I think the story about Joseph, or that
about Isaac, or the prodigal son, or Lazarus and his sisters, as
interesting as a fairy story.”
“They are a hundred times more interesting,” said Charles.
It was the custom of Ellen’s mother to tell her children a short
story every night after they were in bed. She was very glad to find
that the true and instructive histories from the good book, interested
her children as much as those stories that were contrived to delight
them.
“My dear children,” she said, “I shall not tell you a story from the
Bible to-night, but I am going to relate an anecdote—which, you
know, means a short story—of some little children of our
acquaintance.
“There are two children who have a great and kind Friend, who is
always taking care of them, whether they are awake or asleep.”
“I suppose you mean their mother,” said little Charley, who was
always impatient to get at the story.
“No, my love; this Friend gave them their father and mother.”
“Oh, you mean God,” whispered Ellen.
Her mother did not reply to her, but proceeded,—
“This bountiful Friend has given to them the most beautiful and
wonderful gems in the world.”
“Gems! what are gems, mother?” asked Charles.
“Precious jewels, my dear. Those I am speaking of are very small,
but so curiously formed that as soon as the casket which contains
them is opened, there is immediately painted on them a beautiful
picture of all the objects toward which they are turned. If it be a
landscape, like that which you see every morning from your chamber
window, there appear on the gems those beautiful mountains that
rise one above another; the mist that curls up their sides; the bright
lake that glistens in the depth of the valley, and which you call the
mountain mirror, Ellen; the large orchards, with their trees gracefully
bending with their ruddy and golden fruit; the neat house opposite to
us, with its pretty curtain of vines hanging over the door, and rose-
bushes clustering about the windows.”
“What, mother!” exclaimed Charles; “all these things painted on a
little gem?”
“Yes, Charles, all; the high mountains, and the rose-bushes, every
leaf and bud of them. And then, if the gems are turned towards the
inside of the house, the landscape disappears, and all the furniture is
painted on them, and the perfect pictures of their friends; not such
pictures as you see done by painters, looking grave and motionless,
but smiling, speaking, and moving.”
“Oh, mother, mother,” exclaimed Ellen, “this is a fairy story, after
all.”
“Are there, in reality, any such gems?” asked Charles, who did not
like that the story should turn out a fairy story.
“There are, my dear Charles; and the same Friend who gave the
children these gems has given to them many other gifts as
wonderful. He has given to them an instrument by which they can
hear the music of the birds, the voices of their friends, and all other
sounds; and another by which they can enjoy the delicious perfume
of the flowers; the fragrance you so often spoke of, Ellen, when the
fruit trees were in blossom, and the locust trees in flower, and the
clover in bloom.”
“Oh, what a generous friend that must be,” said Charles, “to give
such valuable presents, and so many of them. Are there any more,
mother?”
“Yes, Charles, more than I can describe to you if I were to talk till
to-morrow morning. There is a very curious instrument by which they
can find out the taste of everything that is to be eaten; and another
that, by just stretching out their fingers, they can tell whether a thing
is smooth or rough, hard or soft.”
“Why, I can tell that by my fingers,” exclaimed Charles.
“Yes, my dear,” said his mother; “and cannot you taste by putting
food into your mouth? and is there not an instrument set in your
head by which you can hear?”
“My ear, mother?” asked Charles.
“Yes, my dear,” said his mother.
“And do you mean the eyes by those wonderful gems?” asked
Ellen.
“Yes.”
“But I am sure there is no painting in the eyes.”
“Yes, Ellen; every object you behold is painted upon a part of the
eye called the retina; but that you cannot understand now, and you
must let me go on with my anecdote of the two children. When they
arose in the morning, they found that their Friend had taken such
good care of them when they slept that they felt no pain; that their
limbs were all active, and they could every moment receive pleasure
from the precious gems and instruments I have mentioned. They
both looked out of the window, and exclaimed, ‘What a beautiful
morning!’ The little girl turned her gems toward the multiflora, now
full of roses and glistening with dew-drops, and she clapped her
hands, and asked her brother if he ever saw anything so beautiful;
and he turned his gems to a pair of humming-birds, that were
fluttering over the honey-suckle, and thrusting their tiny pumps into
the necks of the flowers; and as their bright images shone on his
gems, he shouted, ‘Did you ever see anything so handsome?’”
“You mean, mother,” said Charles, “that he looked at the
humming-birds, when you say he turned his gems?”
“Yes, my dear; and when he heard the pleasant humming they
make with their wings, it was by the instrument set in the head which
you call the ear. There was not a moment of the day that the children
did not enjoy some good thing their Friend had given to them. They